An Orphan At Last
by fc2001
Summary: ...His sister was a stranger to her. His sister was a stranger to everyone...
1. Default Chapter

An Orphan At Last  
  
15 years after his father died and left his mother a twisted, lonely woman and him virtually alone in the world, he was finally an orphan. He really did have no one but himself. All his life, he'd been somebody's child. There had been someone in the world responsible for him.   
  
His mother had died as she had lived – alone. She had been found by her neighbour. It was a low key death for a low key life, which he thought very fitting. His mother didn't deserve a hero's death, a tragic death, because that would make too much of her bitter, squalid existence. He hated himself for thinking that way, but it was true. She had never struggled for him, never fought for him, never once taken his side. Why should he give her the honour she never gave him?  
  
The other mourners, what few there were for a solitary, hostile woman, were reserved. They had judged their reactions by his. He was together, surprisingly so, and so they were holding it together. It wasn't difficult. While he had no hate for his mother, he certainly held no love for her either.   
  
The weather fitted the day – an overcast gun-metal sky, closing in on the small group, threatening rain at any moment – and it was cold. Cemeteries always were. It was the family plot, and he knew one day it was likely he'd be buried here too. The thought caused an involuntary shiver, and he attempted to banish it quickly. There were worse places to spend eternity though, than under the boughs of such magnificent old trees, lying in infinite rest entangled in their roots, completing the cycle of life and giving yourself back to the earth that had nourished your life.   
  
The formality over he turned away from the open graveside, and walked back towards the waiting funeral car. He was halted by a hand on his shoulder. Steeling himself for another show of sympathy, he turned back.   
  
"Hi,"  
  
A simple syllable came floating across the years. The woman who stood before him, so starkly familiar but aged beyond her years, was smiling, a small and awkward smile.   
  
"Marie,"  
  
Saying her name, like seeing her face, provoked no emotional response from him. He had given up being angry with her a long time ago, and he couldn't bring himself to remember those days.  
  
"I didn't know you were here,"  
  
He said flatly. Earlier, he had thought he'd seen her across the chapel, but he had dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. Why would it be her? Why would she come back now?   
  
"I'm sorry,"  
  
"What for? She was your mother too,"  
  
The brunette winced visibly. Marie would be 28 now, he calculated quickly. Too old and too proud to apologise for what she'd done. She couldn't apologise and he wouldn't believe her if she tried.   
  
"Are you coming to the tea?"  
  
He asked, more to be polite than anything. She shook her head.  
  
"I wouldn't be welcome,"  
  
"Who there would know you, Marie? Who do you think still hates you?"  
  
There were tears in his sister's expressive navy eyes. Everything about Marie had always been unique, unusual. Until the day she left, because that had been the ultimate expression of normality. Her face was pinched, trying not to cry, knowing there was no sympathy for her in her brother.   
  
"You,"  
  
She muttered, so low he almost didn't hear it.  
  
"No, Marie, don't flatter yourself,"  
  
The pause, whilst he gauged her response, was tense.  
  
"All these years later, what do you expect? Forgiveness? Because I can't give you that,"  
  
She snatched suddenly for the handkerchief in her breast pocket, and hid her face behind it. He could hear muffled crying, but still couldn't muster any sympathy. He felt nothing for his sister's pain, and if that made him hollow, then so be it. The sobbing ebbed rhythmically, like early evening waves meeting the beach, every time she regained control, she was quickly overtaken again.   
  
"I've got to go,"  
  
He said quickly, and walked away again, without a glance back.   
  
"Who was that?"  
  
Emily, the neighbour who was probably his mother's only friend, asked as he approached the waiting black limo. Her gaze was fixed on the lonely figure who now stood somewhere in the middle distance, facing the open grave with her back towards the departing funeral party.   
  
"Just an old family friend,"  
  
It wasn't worth explaining. Emily knew little of the family's history. She knew of him only because she had met him. His sister was a stranger to her. His sister was a stranger to everyone. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was 6 o clock before the apartment was quiet again. Emily stayed long after the few who had come left, dutifully clearing away the cups and dishes. He stood, leaning on the kitchenette doorframe, and watched her quietly. She was an efficient, neat woman, a woman without whom he doubted his mother would have lasted as long as she did. Emily glanced up at him, sensing his stare, and smiled nervously.  
  
"Today wasn't so bad, was it?"  
  
She said, looking back down at the soapy water.   
  
"Could have been worse,"  
  
He wasn't sure if that was a lie or not. Marie had not been part of today. She had not been part of the plan. He hoped that their brief exchange would have been enough to convince her not to try again. But his sister had always been stubborn, and he feared not.  
  
"Well, I don't think you were supposed to enjoy it,"  
  
Emily joked, seemingly uneasy. His apathy bothered her, he knew that. His lack of love for his mother was something she found impossible to comprehend. Emily had a close family – three teenage girls – and couldn't understand the coldness that had always existed between mother and son. But when you have a family, you wonder how anyone can live without what you have. He had never known a family, and he didn't know what he was living without. He couldn't ever know if what Emily had was worth having. That just wasn't his life. He had come to realise that a very long time ago.   
  
"All done,"  
  
She said with a flourish, placing the last dish upside down on the drainer. He liked how practical she was, how she could break through tense silences with simple words, how she shrugged off the way she felt about their screwed-up family to help. Emily didn't ask for anything from people – anything she gave was unconditional. She did nothing for self-gratification. That was probably an aid in her friendship with his mother, one of the most self-absorbed, cold people he had the bad fortune to meet.   
  
"Thank you,"  
  
Emily shuffled nervously, her eyes focussed on the worn lino. He could see she'd turned an interesting shade of pink. It was endearing. Emily was truly completely selfless.   
  
"What are you doing tonight?"  
  
The brisk, practical tone returned, as she dodged around him and collected her coat.   
  
"I've got to work,"  
  
He said, simultaneously reaching for the keys on the counter.   
  
"Oh,"  
  
"Speaking of work. I'm going to be pretty busy in the next week. You think you could keep the keys to this place…It's going on the market pretty soon, and I might not always be available,"  
  
Emily caught the haphazardly tossed keys in one hand.  
  
"Nice catch,"  
  
"Dad didn't have any boys…"  
  
She said, as if that explained everything. He wouldn't return, Emily knew that as well as he did. Emily would probably sell it better than he ever could. She could probably make it seem like a nice property, though it was in reality in a terrible state of decorative repair, in need of rewiring and shoebox sized. He felt no nostalgia for the place. They left the apartment in silence, locking the door seemed like an almost symbolic gesture. Emily crossed the landing to her apartment, and he made his way from the building slowly.   
  
"Come by, if you're ever in the neighbourhood,"  
  
Emily called down the stairs after him. He nodded, but knew he never would. He stepped out into the Chicago night and sighed. Alone, at last. 


	3. Chapter 3

Life settled back into its old routine quickly after the funeral. He worked all hours, mainly nights, and his old patterns returned. His mother's death became just another blip, another pothole on an already pockmarked road. She was no longer an issue. He had what little he had wanted of her things, the rest he had Emily hand into charity shops for him. The apartment was for sale. It was over. Marie had not shown up again. He didn't doubt she had run away again.  
  
"I'm coming, damn it,"  
  
He yelled across the apartment at the impatient, shrilling phone. As his hand swooped for the handset, his knee cracked off the side table. Curses turned the air around him blue, as he lifted the receiver.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
He demanded angrily of whichever faceless voice was disturbing his precious non-work hours.  
  
"Bad time?"   
  
"You could say that,"  
  
The voice was female, and he recognised it too quickly. His tone was terse, purposely so.   
  
"You O.K?"  
  
"Think I cracked my kneecap answering the damn phone, but apart from that, I'm fine,"  
  
The response was a little more emotional than he'd intended, due to the increasing pain in his left knee. It was enough to make anyone a little ratty. There was a muffled laugh on the other end of the line.   
  
"What do you want, Marie?"  
  
Hadn't they said all they needed to at the cemetery? Had he not made himself clear enough? Why did she want back into his life? There was a long, deliberate intake of breath and a momentary silence.  
  
"Will you meet me?"  
  
She asked, the rest of the breath gushing from her in relief.   
  
"Just for coffee or something?"  
  
Marie had always been too proud to beg, but there was something in her tone pleading with him.   
  
"Why?"  
  
The question was cold. It cut across her exactly the way it was designed to.   
  
"Why not? What have you got to lose?"  
  
Marie fired back, almost as coldly.   
  
"I'm busy, Marie,"  
  
He said finally, and hung the phone up. He didn't need to go back there. 


End file.
